Waking Up
by Master Jesse
Summary: Everyone has secrets. What happens when they come to light? I'm still terrible at summaries. Give it a chance.
1. Metagrobolized

Disclaimer: Do not own.

Title: Waking Up

Chapter 1 - Metagrobolized.

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He felt drunk but he couldn't remember having anything. He rubbed his face against the cheek of the body he had pinned against a pile of boxes. His hand stumbled its way up the thin torso and he got that drunk feeling again. He heard footsteps and jumped up. He stuck his head out and waved at the owner of the feet, who had just raised an eyebrow as he shut the door. He kneeled further in the room so even if the door was opened they wouldn't be seen. And beckoned the smiling face up to him. Dazed eyes looked up at him and the question of their sobriety popped into his head again. His lips barely touched his companies neck and he was pushed back onto a plush blanket behind him. He didn't have time to wonder where the blanket had come from before he was shirtless. He felt soft skin rub along his face again; their lips had yet to meet. He ran his hands down the long back slowly. Lips were on his jaw. His fingers hit the elastic band still covering his final destination. His hands slid beneath the fabric and felt the silky skin beneath, gasps were hot against his neck. Teeth locked onto his neck and his pace quickened. He felt slim fingers slide beneath his jeans. He was staring at the ceiling gasping for air. He felt down and his shirt had risen. He was back in his bed. He looked around his darkened room and felt sad that the scene his brain had just conjured up would never happen. A tiny chirp called to him and he felt for his phone. He had a missed call. That must have been what had woken him. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the name on the screen. -Good morning.- he pulled the blankets over his head and took in a few quick breaths before his fingers found the keys and he replied.

-You are late. SH- He blinked and looked at his clock. He pressed the alarm button and it read out 8:55am. He still had 3 minutes to sleep. He rolled over with his phone pulled to him and replied again. -No. 45 minutes.- His eyes closed but another text came. -The meeting moved. Now John. SH- The bed creaked and he rolled over, sitting up. He grumbled as he got dressed. He didn't know why Sherlock couldn't have just woken him up. His mirror image smiled at him reminding him that the detective had gone out late in the evening, and he hadn't heard him come back. He adjusted his jumper and grabbed his phone and jacket before walking out the door. He still didn't understand why it was necessary for him to be there. There had been an argument but it had been useless. He didn't have money for a taxi, so he started to walk. A car slid up next to him a few minutes later. He had just turned from Baker St. 'Care for a ride?' He didn't even need to look to know Mycroft was sitting comfortably in the car. He wondered if the conversation the elder wanted was worth the ride. He kept walking and the car followed him. His phone chirped and he pulled it out. -Get in the car.- He sighed and turned to the car. Mycroft wasn't going to leave him alone.

Sherlock sat at Lestrade's desk with a bored look on his face. Lestrade was working on something he had been successful so far with keeping it hidden from the detective. Lestrade's eyes flicked up when the door opened. John walked in and sat down in the first chair. He looked up to Lestrade and it was clear he wanted to get started. 'Finally gracing us with your presen-' Sherlock started. 'Shut up.' John interrupted, he shot a dark glare at the shocked brunet. His eyes moved back to Lestrade who after a second of shock started talking. John pointed out a mistake he saw on the report and Lestrade nodded. He glanced to Sherlock who was still staring at the doctor. 'I'll take the case.' Lestrade handed the file to Sherlock who was standing now. John was already out the door.

Sherlock watched as the elevator doors shut. He heard the snicker from Anderson. He whirled and started down the stairs. There was no sign of the doctor when he got to the bottom. He sent a text, but didn't expect a reply. The ride home was quiet. When Baker Street came into view he knew that John was home. He opened the door and paused. John motioned with his hand and he shut the door. It was strange. He could tell from the eyes watching him that he had done something the good doctor didn't approve of. There was movement and his eyes flicked to the bag being pulled out of the dark jacket the doctor was still wearing. Internally his eyes widened and he looked at his flat mate with a renewed respect. On the outside he just looked bored. He couldn't believe that he had found the stash. It was well hidden. He'd made sure of that long ago. There was no way he just stumbled upon it. His eyes wandered to the face now glaring at him. Maybe he had judging by the outraged expression. Or at least stumbled upon the secret latch. 'What?' he finally said after it was apparent that Watson was just going to keep staring at him until he gave some sort of acknowledgement of the drugs swinging in their bag between John's fingers. Eyes roamed over his face, searching for something. 'Ha!' He jumped at the loud laugh escaping his companion. He cursed himself for doing so but it had been so unexpected. A tiny flick of his wrist and the doctor sent the bag flying at his chest. His hand closed over it. John brushed past him and the front door slammed shut. He moved to the window and watched John as he disappeared.

Lestrade called a few hours later, John was still out. He slid out the door and was off. There had been a new development to the case. He hadn't been paying attention when the Inspector had been going over the case, but he was glad his distraction had found him an interesting case. He spent a few hours going over some facts before heading back to the flat. He noticed the door was open a crack and he jumped to attention. He slowly opened the door, but it did not appear there was any danger.

He stepped in and saw John draped over the couch. He looked the same as when he had left. Sherlock shut the door and slid his jacket off his shoulders. John's had been dropped on the floor beneath the coat rack. He picked it up and hung it on the hook next to his. He poked the doctor with his foot. A grunt of disapproval was all he got. 'John.' This seemed to bring the good doctor back. 'Huh?' He sat up suddenly eyes wide and searching. They found Sherlock and a wide smile spread across the blond's face. 'Sherlock.' He took a step back. 'You're drunk.' A nod and the smile widened. 'I don't even know how I got here.' He laughed and flopped back onto the couch. Sherlock sat on the chair across the from the now giggling man. He opened his mouth to speak but a finger went up. 'This is all your fault.' Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'It is!' John said throwing his hands in the air. 'He blamed me.' The detective looked over to where John's face had fallen. 'Who are you talking about?' John turned his head and smiled. 'No one.' He looked at the table. Sherlock followed his eyes and grimaced. John reached for the bag but Sherlock was faster and shoved it into his pocket. 'I didn't understand.' John slipped to the ground with that final sentiment. Sherlock winced as he hit the ground, he hadn't been fast enough to stop his fall. He pulled the man up to the couch and pulled one of the blankets over the now sleeping form. He pulled the bag out of his pocket and held it up in the light. 'You didn't understand?' he looked down at the doctor. 'But you do now?'

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A/N: Ummm... I wrote this right after I finished series 1... so its a little old, but I was stumped on where I to go with it. I'd welcome ideas. Let me know what you think. PLEASE! R&R

Oh..! I've never heard the chapter title before but now its my favorite word.


	2. Percipience

Disclaimer: Do not own.

Title: Waking Up

Chapter 2 - Percipience

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The car didn't move from Baker Street like John had expected. Mycroft talked and he listened. The concern in the elder's voice was thick. He stared out the window as he talked. 'He was doing fine until you…' He dropped off when John jerked his attention to the Holmes. 'Until I what?' Mycroft's grip tightened on his ever present umbrella but he didn't say anything. 'That was not… not my fault.' He blinked at him before turning back to the window. Of course Sherlock could do no wrong. He choked out a laugh and got out of the car. 'He's not a child,' he mumbled before shutting the door. He looked at the reflective glass and then down Baker St. with a groan he turned back to the flat. He needed to confirm… for himself, if all that Mycroft said was true. He stood at the door and looked around the room. It wasn't in the living room. He knew that. He had searched everywhere for his phone the other day, and nothing odd had turned up. Sherlock never went into his room, unless he was dressing. He settled for the kitchen and started searching. He pulled a chair to him and started looking at the top cabinets. He ran his hands along the smooth surfaces, he knew Sherlock would be too clever to hide something in plain sight, even if he said it was the best place to hide something. He glanced at the skull for a second pondering if his logic was wrong and it was right there. He shook his head and moved to get down when his finger ran across something and a spring shot up. He pulled what he had been looking for out and threw it to the counter.

The rage at having to be told by Mycroft, being blamed by him more like, and just the fact that Sherlock was that stupid, had blanked out his entire journey to Lestrade's office. The voice he had woke wanting to hear now just annoyed him. He looked over the papers after his outburst before commenting. His eyes caught a confused, and slightly worried Lestrade before he left the room. He knew Sherlock would follow soon after, just out of curiosity on what had caused the outburst. When he got to the elevator he held the close button, it never closed when you wanted it to, even with that button the doors barely closed before the detective got to them. He walked out of the building and one of Mycroft's cars were waiting. He slid in and his assistant sat in silence her fingers sliding over the phone like she always did. He didn't bother asking anything. They slid to a stop in front of the flat and he moved to climb out. A manicured hand pulled on his elbow. 'Does he need to step in?' John shot her a dark look. He pulled his arm away and shrugged. 'No. I'll deal with it.'

He turned on the lights, the day was darkening with clouds and he wanted to see everything that was about to happen. He thought about taking his jacket off, but decided against it instead he just stood in the middle of the room with the item he hated now stuck in his jacket pocket. He heard the footsteps and pulled the lid down on his anger. He settled for disapproving when the door opened. Sherlock paused and John waved for him to shut the door. He didn't want Mrs. Hudson hearing anything just yet. The door closed slowly and Sherlock started his search for clues. He ground his teeth together and pulled out the bag. He was sure that the detective thought he had covered his shock, but it was clear on his face. John ignored the impressed expression that had settled. His eyes narrowed and Sherlock spoke. He wanted to see something, regret or guilt, anything but he saw nothing but that same idiotic expression that said John surprised and impressed him at the most random moments. He barked out a laugh and threw the bag at him. He felt the edges of Sherlock's coat chase after him as he rushed past. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he couldn't stay there with Sherlock.

He walked around until his leg started to ache. His stomach was burning with hunger and he settled for a little food. He stared at the empty chair across from him and wondered if he went back right now the bag would be empty. He shoved that thought from his mind and set to figuring out what he was going to do for the rest of the day. He walked around until he saw a theater and smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a movie without it being criticized. He managed to watch the first few minutes before his mind started to wander.

He couldn't help but worry about Sherlock. He sighed. There was the case. So he would be consumed by that. He knew Sherlock hadn't looked at it in Lestrade's office, but it felt like one of those cases. One that he would later write up and everyone would love. It would probably always be his least favorite. It never failed that the cases where they had the largest personal issues were always everyone's favorites. He hated them. One time he had typed up everything, it had suspiciously disappeared before he could post it. Sherlock hadn't talked to him for a week after that. He knew the detective had found it and hadn't liked what he'd written. A shout brought his attention back to the screen. For a few moments he was drawn in before his mind dragged him back to the conversation he'd had with Mycroft. It had not been his fault… It hadn't. He had been kidnapped. How had Mycroft thought it was his fault? Did he walk around saying 'kidnap me I have a fragile flat mate that will go bonkers if you do'? No. One day he would punch Mycroft. Just to do it. He could see the various expressions that would cross his face. Maybe he'd steal his safety umbrella and whack him with that. He laughed at one of his imaginings and glanced around to see if anyone looked at his sudden outburst. The movie sucked him in again for just a few minutes before he started to drift again.

He blinked a few times when he realized that people around him were getting up. He looked to the screen and realized he had missed the whole movie. The credits were rolling up the screen with a depressing song filling the room. It didn't help his mood. He found his phone and sent out a text to a few of his friends. The streets pulled him along while he waited for any response. Only one reply came, a rejection. He sighed and walked in the first pub he found. It was still early, but he had nothing else to do. He nursed a pint in the corner, watching the various people coming in. He tried not to see the little details, but failed. He downed the rest of his drink and ordered another. The pub was starting to fill up. He moved from the table when a group of girls shuffled awkwardly around him. They wanted it, but didn't want to ask. He set up at the end of the bar. He could still see the whole room.

Hours passed, he had lost count on what drink this was. He had started up a conversation with one of the bartenders, it was sporadic cause he couldn't just sit and talk, but had to work. Another of the customers came and sat next to him, they talked for a while, occasionally with the bartender who seemed a little wary about the new man. He placed a shot in front of the pair. 'Courtesy of the lady at the end.' They took the shots and downed them. He immediately felt the burn and fought to hold a smile on his face. He washed it down with his own drink and his head felt fuzzy. He took a few deep breaths and his mind settled. He excused himself and walked to the restroom. His bladder was screaming at him, and had been for a while, but he'd been too content to move. He held himself up on the wall while he did his business. 'You want something to make this night interesting.' He turned from the sink and blinked. It was his companion. He shook his head. 'Nah.' He knew what he was talking about. 'I think you should.' He felt the prick of a needle and stumbled away. 'What the fuck?' Laughter was surrounding him. 'Have a good night.' He heard the door shut behind him, but he was still trying to figure out what he'd just been injected with. He found his phone and pulled it out. He found what he hoped was the right number and hit send. 'Hello?' He leaned against the door to a stall in relief that someone had picked up. 'Someone just drugged me.'

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A/N: Bear with me. This chapter sucks. I know. I had no idea where I was going after the first one and this kind of was BLAH! to get me started up again. Good news is I know where I'm heading with it now. Please review. I need them. :(


	3. Hebetudinous

Disclaimer: Do not own.

Title: Waking Up

Chapter 3 - Hebetudinous

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John woke up feeling the worst he'd ever felt before. His own drool was slick on the couch and he pulled off it in disgust. The movement hurt. He ended up moving over a few inches to avoid the small puddle, but his head quickly fell back. He groaned and swore to never drink again. 'Drink.' He heard the cup hit the table across from the couch. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. His head felt like it was going to explode. He focused on moving his arm, but it weakly flopped onto the table next to the cup. He heard a sigh and the cup moved. Sherlock's face moved in front of him. 'Here.' He felt the cup on his lips and did as told, it was awkward at that angle, but the cool water settled the burn in his throat and his head started to ache less. He kept his gaze on the clear liquid. He didn't want to see whatever disapproving expression was on the detective's face. 'Better?' he barely heard the whisper but nodded when the cup was pulled away. It had served his purpose and sat empty back on the table. He winced when he was shifted into a sitting position. His head throbbed and his stomach skipped somersaults and cartwheels and started doing a series of back handsprings ending in a full twisting layout. He lost it in the box of files next to the table.

After his spectacular regurgitation Sherlock set a trash bin in front of him and left to throw out the box. It had been empty so luckily none of the files for the case had been damaged. 'The victim was drugged.' His own voice sounded wrong in his ears. 'Three hours before she was killed.' Sherlock had returned. He settled on the couch and took the file John had been reading. 'There was nothing of interest at her home.' John looked at the girl, she was smiling happily in the picture. He knew she would have been radiant in life. The smile on her cold unseeing face was startling. He couldn't tear his gaze away. He hadn't bothered looking at the picture yesterday. The words were all that mattered, words to keep his focus on what he had to do. Today he didn't have that luxury. That face. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit. 'Molly said that her facial muscles had been pinned into a smile before she died.' He turned slowly to Sherlock. His stomach rolled with something that had nothing to do with the alcohol still reeking havoc on his system.

Sherlock looked up at him and there was a slight twitch of a smile. He blinked owlishly and turned back to the folder before him. His mind was sending flashes of his dream in cinemascope before his eyes. He felt Sherlock move on the couch and stood up. 'I'm going to take a shower.' He stumbled away. He didn't know where that had come from. He leaned against the door and took a few steadying breaths. The memory faded and he blinked a few times. He couldn't remember anything from the night before. He started from the morning and worked his way forward. That terrible conversation in the car, the hidden spring, Lestrade's office, Sherlock's face as the elevator closed on him. Then black. It was like a film reel playing and suddenly the light goes out, you know something's going on but it's not showing on the screen. He settled in the shower and let the water wash away the filth he felt, filth he had no idea how it got there. He knew it involved alcohol. He could smell it, could still taste it in his mouth. He swore as his head throbbed. He needed to take something.

He heard Sherlock's violin start up and sighed. This was not going to help his headache any, but he knew from the daunting case that he had probably been resisting the urge to release his frustration the entire night. The melody that streamed through the air was soft and tinted with melancholia. Something else was going on with him. Frustration always brought out a fast screeching mess of notes. He stared at the clothes in a gritty pile on the floor and decided he'd risk a toweled journey to his room. The sound increased when he opened the door, his head gave an angry throb. He ignored it and made his way to his room holding onto the towel.

He leaned against the chair and let the emotions he claimed not to have seep out. The distress had all started when he got a rather infuriating text the night before. -You really should be more careful with him. M- He hadn't replied. He'd looked across the room at the passed out John and had sighed. Now he kept replaying it, his mind supplementing Mycroft's frustrating voice. The disapproval was thick. He hadn't done anything. He scoffed. John wasn't some toy to be broken, or stolen. He dropped his bow and sighed. This wasn't helping. He heard John's door shut and he picked up the bow again. He forced himself to think of the case, and not the man dressing in the other room. Suddenly something hit him. He grabbed his phone. -You are the one that broke my parrot, and then hid it, aren't you? I found the broken wing that you missed. SH- He smirked as he continued playing a lighter song. There was a tiny wait. -I was 12. M- Immediately after another chirp sounded. -And no it was not me. M-

He dropped his phone and started on another tune. His mind drifted and he thought back to the day before. John hadn't brought it up. He was sure they would talk about it soon. The doctor wouldn't let it go that easily. He never let anything get swept under the rug. He sighed and his fingers moved frantically across the strings. He glanced up when he felt eyes on him and caught John watching him. He turned and walked into the kitchen without a word. 'John?' He stuck his head out of the kitchen. 'Yeah?' His phone rang before he could say any more. John disappeared back into the kitchen and he answered. 'There's been another.'

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A/N: Um... Please Review. I am having trouble writing this. :/


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